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you give me fever when you kiss me (fever when you hold me tight)

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The nights in London are so different from the nights in Ballarat.

Of course, halfway around the world, Jean Blake can hardly expect less. The cars and buses and bustle of people is a constant cacophony below the safety of their honeymoon suite. Jean and Lucien had quite enjoyed their stay in London, but Jean had grown accustomed to lounging and luxuriating beneath her husband’s fond gaze, as she had just before dinner.

“A lady of luxury already, my love,” he had rasped out, his timbre teasing, even as his fingers trailed beneath her silken robe, finding cream flesh, supple and warm, and she’d gone willingly, parting her thighs, wanton in a way that she might otherwise blush scarlet at the thought of. He’d kissed her then, and all thoughts of going down to dinner had been forgotten for some time afterwards.

But here, now, on their last night in the city, Lucien slips the pins from her hair, his fingers etching carefully through her locks, the pads of his fingers rubbing gently at her sore scalp. Jean lets her head fall back against his broad shoulder, his fingers threading through her hair to find the slope of her neck, brushing against goosebumps that erupt along her porcelain skin, even in the bathwater, warm and lovely around them.

A lazy hum bubbles up from her throat, a thrill shuddering through her at the feel of his warm fingers tapering along her neck, and then her shoulders.

The feel of her hair releasing from its confines, of Lucien’s fingers tapping out the knots of stress that melt away with the warmth of his fingers, the way his lips find her ear, pressing feathery kisses along her cheek, it’s almost enough to bring her to tears. A rush of emotion unfolds, just as a knot of tension builds low in Jean’s belly, between her thighs. Lucien’s mouth dips lower, seeking out her pulse, his kisses nearly keeping time with her breaths. Her fingers, warm and slick in the bathwater, search out his cheek, pressing into him as though she sets him alight in all of the same ways.

Lucien holds her with such reverence, here, in the grandiose suite in London, tucked away in a manner befitting all newly married couples, and Jean flushes at the thought, her body almost sore with her husband’s attentions.

His palms press into her sides now, along the expanse of skin, just beneath her last rib, skittering across her ivory skin, even as his lips trace idle designs on her shoulder now. Jean’s fingers slip up into his hair, almost unbidden, but then her nails are scratching at his scalp, mussing his hair loose from its tight confines of pomade and a strict comb, almost as if she wants to see him wild, undone by her hand, and perhaps she does, because she tightens her fingers just so and tugs.

Lucien sends sparks lightning a path to her core when he grunts, his teeth slipping along her shoulder, nipping, and it’s not enough, not now, not with her need and his command over her, and it’s not quite right, the way this is playing out, with her back to him and his fingers tracing a slow path to where her nipples harden beneath warm water and a warmer desire. She turns towards him, the slick tub squeaking beneath her ungraceful feet and she lets out a laugh, light and joyous, because she is learning to laugh in ways she’d forgotten since Christopher had left her, two small boys on her arms, and a farm to run on her own.

But now, Jean finds that she belongs here with Lucien, and perhaps she always has, and the power of the thought makes her press into Lucien’s chest, her nails digging into his shoulders, leaving stinging evidence of how fiercely she loves him, while her mouth claims his in a soft kiss that leaves him chasing her lips after she pulls away. Lucien’s eyes, warm, bright, and her favorite shade of blue, watch her carefully, as though he might memorize her, and his lips tug up into a smile that she matches. Water splashes out onto the beautiful marble floor as Jean, with a little less grace than she might like, rises to stand. Lucien swallows as she is revealed to him, and her nipples pebble in the cool air as if aware of his gaze, and goosepimples dot her skin, warmed by the water. The way he drinks her in makes her feel as though she is Aphrodite, born from the sea-foam. He follows as Jean steps from the bath, her hand held out to him, and he nearly scrambles to clamber after her. Lucien makes to toss the robe over his naked form, but Jean arches a single brow at him, a silent command passing through the thick air, electric, and he pauses, following as she pads from the en suite.

Jean turns then, eyes flashing as he is revealed to her once more, and she could never tire of this, her husband revealed to her in such a way, naked and lovely and hers. He is a vision, hair rumpled and curling at the ends from her attentions, the water of the bath running down his broad frame, the path of the water followed by her keen eyes. Lucien’s chest is defined, his belly softening with her meals, and she feels herself flush at the way his forearms cord and pull, even as he crosses his arms, a mock attempt at being serious, as her eyes dip lower to settle on her prize, his cock half-hard from their time in the bath. Lucien’s cheeks redden at the way she seems to appraise him, but then, a pleased grin stretches across his face and he crosses the room in a few swift steps, his arms warm where they meet her skin, but Jean steps back, though she desperately wants to kiss him, to take what is hers, to take what he offers so freely.

“Wait,” she says, her voice tense, commanding, brooking no argument, and she nods towards the bed, “get comfortable.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, knocking against her ribs so hard, she imagines he’s only pretending he can’t hear, but she presses her hands to his warm shoulders, pushing him towards the bed, and he goes willingly. They had talked about this before, about the idea of her taking control, of taking him apart piece by piece, but she hadn’t spoken of it since, the very idea sending a blushing shame rocketing through her, but seeing him like this, wet with bathwater and so eager to comply with her voiceless commands, something has shifted since she’d last considered it, and where there was once shame, there is now only the heady thrill of arousal and eager anticipation.

She leaves him then, there in the bedroom, casting a grin over her shoulder as she slips into the en suite once more.

Dressing for him, for this, she thinks, is a sort of ritual that she will gladly perform for the rest of her life. The slide of silk against her skin is sinful all on its own, but the reason she’s wearing it, the man that lay waiting for her, and the lipstick, deep and thrilling, straightens her spine and purses her lips, as though the very act of putting on this lingerie, red and dangerous and hot and smooth, gives her courage, helps her to assume control, or at least the notion of it. She will forever hear the echo of Lucien’s quick breaths when she’d suggested this, or rather, as she’d asked him, the quick intake of breath, the sudden stillness of the air, the warmth of his chest against her cheek, the race of his heartbeat, thundering in the quiet.

Yes, he’d said, I would— I would enjoy that very much.

She watches herself now, watches the way she leans in to survey herself as she paints her lips— it’s bold, red, daring and thrilling all at once. Jean lets her eyes flash with pride as the slip outlines the swell of her breasts just so, her nipples hard with the anticipation of what she’s about to do.

The slip fits her snugly, the lace edging giving her just enough to rub her thumb on, the ridges of the delicate lace catching on her work-worn skin, but she pays it no mind, turning instead to the lotion on the vanity, smoothing the rose perfumed cream across her pale skin, still freckled with the Australia sun that they had left behind only two months ago. Jean hums out a light tune, and pauses, tracing her collarbone idly as she looks at herself in the mirror, considering. Jean has been happier than ever, really, and a pleasant bloom of pink flushes her cheeks, and she straights, then, sure and confident. She wears nothing but the slip and the accompanying robe, and she feels dangerous, sly, and devastating.

The idea of having power over Lucien, of watching him squirm beneath her watchful eye, it has her giddy, and with one last glance in the mirror, she strides to the door.

When Lucien sees her, however, Jean is not prepared for the way he gasps, as though he’s been burned, as though he has found water in a desert, and his fists tighten at his sides, the whites of his knuckles showing. He is bare before her, kneeling there, on the plush carpet that is a sweet, petal pink against the tanned skin of his thighs, Lucien’s years in the sunlight of Australia’s summer turning his skin a lovely tan beneath the summer sun, staying even in the cool spring of Europe. It's almost sweet, the way he waits for her, the way he had chosen to kneel before her instead of lounging on the bed. He is eager and waiting and watching her. Lucien’s eyes flicker, as if remembering himself then, remembering that he hasn’t earned the privilege of seeing her, and his eyes slide shut before his gaze finds a spot on the carpet, and rivets his attention to it, and this is different, so very different from what they'd discussed.

Even as Jean pads towards him, power and tremulous command in her step, he daren't lift his eyes, and that sets her heart racing because this is so much bolder and braver than what she'd thought of, and Lucien has always known what it is she wants, before she does. And this is beautiful, Lucien a work of art, kneeling in worship to her, and she feels more in love with him than ever. Jean's fingers twitch to the tie of her silk robe, eager to see what he might do.

There’s a pride in her step that belies the way her belly ties itself in knots, but then, oh, then, his cock twitches, and he lets out a stuttering breath as he surveys the cream of her thighs with a worshipful gaze. His jaw jumps when she nears him, a smile growing on her painted lips as she sees the flush of arousal deepen his gaze, the blue of his eyes a stormy grey, his mouth having fallen open. Her hand is soft when she drags it across her thigh, and he watches the motion unblinkingly.

He tries, he tries not to touch her, but she's there, her lotion sweet and flowery, and he must not look up, must not meet her eyes, must use manners, please and thank you and more please and it's all too much. This moment is too still, too full of everything she knows he wants to do, everything he must want her to do, and the tension tests the air they breathe in, and Jean feels anticipation and excitement curl through her. Jean knows that he can't resist, because she moves to stand in front of him, her shapely hips at brow level with him, and oh, this, she wants this, she wants him to wrap his fingers around her warm thighs and clutch her to him and make her feel like she might burst with want, but instead, he only traces his finger up the cool slope of her calf, before she remembers, before red nails press into his chin, drawing his gaze up, into stormy eyes that narrow, even as he drops his hand.

Don’t touch.”

It’s a warning wrapped in a saccharine smile, and Lucien lets out a heavy breath, as though he might’ve said something, but now thinks better of it.

Her fingers release the tie of her robe, and it’s too much, even for her to resist. Jean bends then, the silk of her robe falling open as she does, but Lucien is looking at her with so much heat, blistering want that shivers down her spine that she meets his mouth with hers. The kiss isn’t long, but it’s enough to stoke her desire for this, enough to make her braver still. The way he still tastes, of her and of wine and chocolates and him, she presses in deeper, her tongue sliding against his before she pulls away. He’s breathless and flushed and glittery-eyed from a heady desire, hissing when she closes her teeth on his lower lip, nipping just enough to remind him that this is far from sweet, that this is about power and Jean, and nothing else.

“On the bed, against the pillows.”

The slick sound of the silk tie being plucked from her waist is the only sound that she hears other than her husband’s rapid intake of breath as he ungracefully does as she commands. Jean stands then, at the edge of the bed, considering carefully, the tie sliding through her grip, smooth and her lips twitch with her newfound command. Lucien’s broad chest is rising and falling, his shoulders taut and tight with restraint, and his hands are fisted into the bedsheets, his eyes lingering on the swell of her breast beneath daring red.

The fantasy comes to her mind unbidden, Lucien, so used to controlling every situation, so used to knowing everything, to being the smartest in the room, at Jean Blake's mercy, twisting there, feet slipping against silken sheets as he begs his wife, as his hips jut up, his hands tied through the decorative iron twists and loops of the headboard. Jean stands still, there at the end of the bed, appraising him, imagine her red nails against the slope of her collarbone as she traces out an idle pattern.

In a moment, long though it seems, she makes her decision. She wants this, him, splayed out before her, and wanting, wanting, wanting. And it’s all for her.

She surveys him one last time, watches as his eyes trace the outline of her thin hips, the way the sash of her robe slips through her fingers, and watches the way her lips curl upwards. His desire is apparent now, his flushed cock already half-risen and he squirms as she lets the rest of the robe slide from her shoulders, shrugging back in a way that makes her breasts press teasingly to the silk of her slip, her nipples pebbling under her husband’s gaze. The robe, as red and dangerous as the rest of her ensemble, is abandoned at the foot of the bed, even as Jean advances.

“Oh, Jean, my darling,” and he’s breathless and wrecked and it’s all for her, the way his eyes shine with lust, fogging with need. Her lips part as she reaches him, and she climbs onto the bed, rising on her knees, the sash in hand. His fingers twitch, and they find her hip, tracing out an idle pattern, scorching a brand into her skin, and she is so very, very covered in his marks, even unseen with the naked eye, that she could never, would never give herself to anyone else again; her very heart is tattooed with his name, traced out between the beats of her heart, and with lips and tongue and fingers and his essence.

But even now, as much as she wants him to touch her, to please her, she knows what they spoke of in the dark, knows how to tie the knot, lest he need to slip free, had practiced under his watchful gaze again and again and again, until she could tie it and loosen it with a single tug, until she could feel the heady excitement build and build and build, and now they’re here, the two of them, swollen and fuzzy with desire and lust and love and everything in between.

Jean Blake’s voice is sweet as honey when she tells him to stop, when she tells him to raise his hands above his head, to hold still, as though perhaps she’s asking him to pass the cream during tea. She lets her breasts crush to his chest as she bends to secure the sash, and perhaps it’s unnecessary, cruel, even, the way she toys with him, but he’s earned the torture.

Lucien has disobeyed her.

She pulls away then, her fingers curling around his wrists, and she leans down, her lips brushing his ear, “I thought I told you not to touch, husband.”

And Lucien, helpless and bound, is waiting like a gift just for her, wild-eyed and breathless, pillows propped behind his head, wrists bound up, trussed far apart, hands grabbing uselessly, as Jean, beautiful Jean in red lace and nothing else, takes and takes and takes. She brushes her lips along his neck, finding the beat of his pulse beneath her lips, and nips, and she smiles against him when he hisses aloud. Her kisses are like fire, desperate to consume him whole, and if she is Vesuvius, then he must gladly be Pompeii, struck down by the heat in her kisses. His hands twist uselessly against his bonds, and he mumbles out a please, breathless and needy, and she pulls away, and he whines, and for a moment, Jean sees the boy he must’ve been, the man he’d been before, or the man she thought he was, though he looks at her with a reverence that hadn’t been there then, and Jean feels her resolve give, a dam breaking inside and a flood of emotion wells up. Jean needs to feel him, one last time, so she sinks down, kisses him and Lucien returns her kiss with ardor.

She takes the breath from his lungs, it seems, because they fall still and silent, but for the rapid staccato beats of their hearts thundering together, and lips press together and Jean feels a buzz of contentedness rush through her veins. She is sure of this, then, when she draws her fingers up, up, until she slips her fingers into his, and clutches his hands in her own.

“I warned you, you know, what would happen if you disobeyed. Do you remember?” Jean dares to ask, her heart in her throat, and he nods, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open at the memory of her whispered promise.

Because she'll baptize his neck in her red, red lipstick, she'll whisper her deepest desires into his ear, she will trace out her love for him with her fingertips, but no, she won't kiss him again, not yet, not until she takes her fill. He whines and bucks and perhaps he growls into the thick air, but a scathing look and a particularly sharp graze of her nails stops him, and he breathes out into the heated air, wanting nothing but her, and the scent of her is enough to harden him, to have him twitching against the heat of the air between them.

Jean Blake is nothing if not accommodating, so she swings her knees across his wide torso, settling over his stomach, and she hovers there, above him, and surely he can feel the heat of her, wet and wanting, above his body, because he groans then. She lets a sly grin slip along kiss-swollen lips, her eyes, dark and glittering with utter abandon, flutter shut as she passes over him, her heat a teasing sensation just above him, and he lets out a throaty whine. Her heart races, though she mustn't admit it.

“Stay,” she says, and she knows he would do anything in the world for her then, would anyway really, but the way she says it, the way gravel catches there in her throat, it's better than poetry. Lucien shifts below her because she is an angel in red and he is but a humble sinner and he’d never been very good at obeying.

He whines out something that perhaps might sound like anything in the English language, and if it doesn't, it doesn’t matter because Jean understands him, dips her tongue to his chest and his nipples pebble with the way her lips are soft, the way her tongue traces out the dips and grooves of his torso, her hands steady on his wrists, holding him there, though the silk of her sash has trapped him, ensnared him, much as he is ensnared by her, entranced, even.

“Yes, Christ, whatever you want, yes, Jean. Please.”

“Say it,” she mumbles into his skin, lips scorching a heated path along the scar on his chest, “Say it, Lucien.”

He swallows, then, against his own pleas, against the cries that sit just at the back of his mouth, and his voice is shaking, unfamiliar even to him.

“I promise I'll be anything you want me to be. Anything.” He knows then, what to say, what to say to make her smile, to make her sink down onto him, to make her take him in, to let him love her like she deserves.

“I'll be good.”

She feels a tendril of want snare around her belly, feels it tug and pluck until she can take no more. To be apart from him now is torture. A smile, genuine and true, breaks through Jean’s stern countenance, and she shifts up, her knees coming to frame his face, his arms bound up in a way that allows Jean to settle her weight carefully on her knees.

The brush of his warm bare skin against the outside of her thighs is a sweet contrast to the way his lips, soft and swollen with her attentions, seek out the apex of her thighs, and Jean gasps out at the way his mouth presses to her, sucking and loving and needing and searching. Jean’s hands find his, even as she sinks down on his waiting mouth, even as her hips begin a seeking rhythm, greedy and eager. Lucien’s fingers grip hers, and she moans out a breathy thing, high and needy.

This is far from a true punishment, really, but Jean needs this, needs him, in the only way she can think to have him without giving him what he wants, because she is needy and wanton and full of lust and she thinks that nothing, not even Hell, could blister and burn as much as this does. Jean controls him here, controls the way his mouth works, where he can touch and where he cannot, and she grins for it, sighing out a lovely string of praise that leaves Lucien eager.

“My good, good husband, my Lucien,” she murmurs out, into the heated silence, even as she feels his mouth seek out her clit, pulling it between lips, “there, there, please.” The plea falls from her lips without pause, but truly, she doesn’t mind, because she wants too much, too quick, and all at once, and she quivers with delight, and her nails rake a path through his hair, feeling the plush springs of his curls beneath her fingers, soft and right. He belongs here, he always has, beneath her, loving her with all he has, with lips and tongue and a need to please, and she nearly weeps for the thought.

Her left hand is still in his, the glitter of her ring in the soft evening light is almost enough to make her open her eyes once more, to admire this, them, to admire the way Lucien’s eyes are shut, long lashes pressing to sun-kissed cheeks, but then, oh God, then his tongue finds her clit, touching and setting a spark into a flame and she comes undone, a breathless mewl filling the air around them with echoes upon echoes, every moment of carefully engineered design falling away for this.

Jean Blake has never felt more desired, more loved than with this man, and even as she trembles and quakes, she can feel his eyes considering her, feels the press of his fingers into her hand, feels the way his lips press kisses to her thighs, slow and steady and patient.

She falls to the side, humming out an idle tune as her heart beat slows and the sticky air dissipates, leaving the desire clinging between her thighs.

“Jean,” Lucien’s voice is full of grit and carefully contained desire, and Jean watches as his fists clench above them, her knot remaining in place, even as he squirms against the bond, heavy need twitching as he does, “please.

Jean grins, even as she presses her face into his chest, pressing lazy kisses to his warm muscles, bunched taut with the effort of remaining still.

“I have plans for you yet, Lucien Blake.”